“I'm too—”
“You are too charming not to have some one who appreciates the fact as thoroughly as I do,” he interrupted gallantly. “I think you do me so much good, you know,” he added, still holding her hand. She looked at him directly for the first time.
“Do I really? Is that true?” she demanded, with a return of her old manner so complete and sudden as to startle him. “If I thought that—”
“You would?” he asked with a smile. “I thought so! Here is a village that scorns your efforts and a respectful suitor who implores them. Can you hesitate?”
His smile was irresistible, and she returned it half reprovingly. “Will you never be serious?” she said. “I wonder that I can—” She stopped.
“That you can—” he repeated, watching her blush, but she would not finish.
“You must not think that I can give up my work—my real work—so easily,” she said, rising and looking down on him with a return of her simple impressive seriousness. “I shall have to consider. I have been very much disturbed by their conduct. I will see you after supper,” and with a gesture that told him to remain, she left the room, her head high as she caught Annabel's voice from outside. She turned in the door, however, and the stern curves of her mouth melted with a smile so sweet, a promise so gracious and so tender, that when her eyes, frank and direct as a boy's, left his, he looked long at the closed door, wondering at the quickening of his pulses.
A moment later he heard her voice, imperious and clear, and the mumble of Mr. Waters's unavailing if never-ending excuses. He laughed softly to himself, and touched the strings of the guitar that she had struck. “I shall save the worthy Thomas much,” he murmured to himself, “and of course I do it to reform her—I cannot pull down the village and die with the Philistines!”
She went up the long main street, Mr. Waters at her side and Annabel Riley behind her. Her lodger watched her out of sight, and prepared to lock up the Rooms.
“So firm, so positive, so wholesome!” he said, as he started after her.